


The Trouble With Me Is You

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-10
Updated: 2011-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Tommy doesn't know what he wants. He knows exactly what he wants, and what he wants, god fucking damn it, are kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble With Me Is You

"But what the fuck is it?" Tommy says, phone clutched in one hand and an explosion of black lace in the other.

"It's vintage, pretty boy," comes Sutan's unhelpful reply. "1920s. Go put it on, be gorgeous. And stop opening your presents early."

"You fucking gave it to me," Tommy grumbles. "I'm not waiting for Jesus's unbirthday."

"Bye-bye, shortcake, send me pictures!"

The line goes dead. Sighing, Tommy drops his phone onto the couch. It's three days before Christmas and there are more gilt-edged boxes piled up in his living room than he honestly knows what to do with. Most of them don't have tags, which is Adam's seriously ridiculous way of attempting to hide just how many of them are from him. The rest are from family, friends, fans. If he doesn't start opening now, it's going to be next year before he gets through them all.

"Okay," Tommy says to the thing wadded up in his grip, "fine." Standing up, he shucks his jeans and shorts, and hauls whatever the hell Sutan bought for him on. For all the frills, it turns out to be pretty basic, form-fitting like boxer-briefs but with lace edging the legs and cut up sharply across his hipbones, soft silk barely covering his ass and his junk. They're kinda weird, kinda comfy, and freakishly hot. Hot like blood-black lipstick on an open mouth, or like Adam jacking a mic.

"Huh," he says, and palms his dick, readjusting it so he's filling them out right, then heads to his bedroom to check this shit out in the mirror. He frowns at the Metallica tee he's wearing. Awesome, sure, but not really working it. Poking through the dozens of shirts in his closet he can't remember buying, he comes up with the shimmery purple button-down he wore for their first show in Florida. He shrugs it on, rolls up the sleeves to his elbows. Now it's hot, in that careless fuck-me way. The smudged eyeliner left over from last night totally nails it. Sutan's gonna bust a nut.

"So hey," he calls, pausing in Mike's doorway. Mike's kicked back on the floor, leaning against the bed dicking around with an old wooden guitar that's like a baby blanket to him, and Tessa's sprawled on the bed decapitating zombies. "Whatcha think?"

"You really are gay," Mike says, with a hint of wonder.

Tommy shrugs. "Little bit."

"Genderqueer," Tessa says, bopping Mike in the back of the head with her toe. "And hot, wow, Tommy. Who's that for?"

Mike snorts.

"You realise I'm only dating you for the chance to ogle him, right?" Tessa tells Mike.

"We've been dating for three years."

"I'm a very dedicated ogler."

"Sucker," Tommy chimes in, and throws Tessa a thumbs up on his way back to the living room and his phone. Sutan's not the only one who needs to see him in this getup.

*

It's four in the morning when Tommy's phone goes off. He surfaces from his Weeds-induced daze to check the display, and just like that he's wide awake, revved. Scooting up from his lazy sprawl on the couch, he scrubs hair out of his eyes, braced like a text from Adam is some big thing.

 _Just one pic. :(_

Tommy bites his lip to keep an instant and vicious grin from taking over his face. A flurry of ideas hits him, and he skids back down on the couch, the hem of his shirt riding up, to go with the one that'll totally knock Adam back on his perky ass. He splays his fingers close to the slim waistband of his frilly new shorts, thumb grazing the neat trail of hair on his belly that disappears under it, and snaps the picture, sending it off with a smiley face before common sense can ruin his fun.

Ten seconds later, Adam's ringtone goes off. All Tommy can hear at first is a thudding bass line, laughter, and then Adam's drunken whine comes filtering through. "Oh my god, you're seriously trying to kill me."

Tommy somehow manages to keep his glee contained to a nose wrinkle. "How's the party, hot stuff?"

"Not as good as what's on my phone." The background noise fades to a dull roar. "You should come out. Just like that. Don't change. I'll send a car."

"You're totally wasted if you think I'm going out in this shit."

There's a muffled thump. Tommy's not sure what's going on over there, but he kinda hopes Adam just sat down before he fell down. "I totally am," Adam groans. "And you are _mean_. Come party with me."

"Nah," Tommy says, tugging at a bit of lace. "Y'know that's not really my thing."

"Your thing is _torturing me_."

"'Fess up, you love it."

Adam makes a weird grunting noise Tommy decides is whole-hearted agreement.

"Besides," Tommy goes on, "it's like, dawn. Party's over soon."

"Baby, I can keep any party going," Adam says, voice low, edgy-dangerous, and Tommy's heart freezes mid-beat. Then Adam laughs, that loud, dorky half-giggle thing he does. With a heavy thud, blood starts pumping again. "Really. I miss you."

"Me too," Tommy says, and seriously, usually when Tommy says stuff like that, it comes out awkward, stilted. Not because he doesn't mean it, or he's not used to saying it, but because it's really fucking true. He hates missing people. That whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing is bullshit. All it does is make the heart ache. And what the fuck, that shit is not cool.

But Tommy's had a year to live tucked under Adam's arm, and his presence is the cockblocking bane of the entire population of West Hollywood. There's no way Adam's gonna get laid if he's around, and he wishes that were just his asshole ego talking.

Picking at a worn patch on the couch, Tommy asks, "Gonna do the New Years thing?"

"Yeah, of course! If you're not there, I will come over and drag you off your couch myself, Tommy Joe, so help me."

"It's like, a _week_ away. 'Course I'm gonna be there. Lee's on the bar." There is seriously precious little in this world as fucking awesome as when Lee goes all cocktail guru on his ass.

"You better," Adam threatens. "Fucking pretty boys."

"Aw," Tommy coos. "You think I'm pretty."

"You're fucking gorgeous. And completely soulless. Fuck, I'm gonna be so hungover tomorrow." Something covers the mouthpiece, muffling Adam's voice along with some other guy's. "I can already feel it. It's horrible. Come take care of me."

A familiar electric tingle starts up in Tommy's gut. Ignoring it never works, so he just lets it happen, tries to keep it from creeping into his tone. "Sorry, babyboy, forgot my nurse's uniform in Singapore."

"So mean," Adam moans. "I don't know why I love you."

"Somebody's gotta," Tommy tosses back, light and easy. "Know what helps? More booze."

"'Kay," Adam sighs. "I'll go drink more. You go take more pictures."

"Gonna start charging you."

"'Kay," Adam repeats, like he honestly doesn't give a shit.

"29.95 per," Tommy warns.

"Whatever. You've got my Visa number. Shit. Gotta go say g'bye. Go to bed, baby. Bring me coffee and you in a skimpy frilly apron in the morning."

"Yeah, sure, I'm gonna get right on that."

"Shoulda put it in your contract," Adam sighs. "G'night, vicious kitty. Not kidding about the apron."

Laughing, Tommy says, "Uh huh," wishes Adam a goodnight and means it, and hangs up. They all put up with a lot of shit on tour, but no one as much as Adam. Back in LA, surrounded by his awesome, kooky friends, Adam deserves to have a good time.

The Weeds episode Tommy had been watching is long since over, the DVD stuck looping through the opening menu. Fiddling with the remote, he skips back to a scene or two before the phone rang. Adam's voice is still buzzing under his skin. No way in hell is he getting to sleep now.

*

It's not that Tommy doesn't know what he wants. He knows exactly what he wants, and what he wants, god fucking damn it, are kisses. Those fucking amazing, spine-melting kisses that all of a sudden he's gone off cold turkey. Maybe he's got stars in his eyes or some shit, but nobody, fucking _nobody_ kisses like Adam does. Not even the incredibly hot brunette currently sitting in Tommy's lap sucking his tongue. She's doing a damn good job at it, too. All Tommy's saying is, she's not Adam.

She breaks off with a tiny nip to his lip. Not a single spark flies. Fuck, he is such an asshole.

"So, um," he starts.

"Sweetheart, it's okay," she says, smoothing his hair back behind his ear. "Too bad, though. You're super cute."

A black hole can open up beneath their booth any time now. The club scene really isn't Tommy's thing. He honestly has no idea where he even is now except it's loud and filled with gorgeous, glittering people. Chances are pretty good he's never coming back.

The girl--Claudia, he's sure, 'cause there was this other chick with her awhile ago that kept calling her Claudie--grabs a napkin and scribbles a number down on it with lipliner. "Just in case," she says, tucking it into his pocket.

"Yeah, uh, thanks," Tommy says, while his brain's going, _like fucking hell_. One single moment of mortification is all anybody gets to witness. Even if this girl is his fucking soulmate, no fucking way he's picking up the phone to give her an instant replay of the loser from last Thursday night. He gives her a quick peck on the lips before she slides away. "Really," he adds, honestly hoping she's not pissed.

She gives his arm a squeeze, and then she's gone. Tommy slumps down, knocking the back of his head off the booth. Stuff like this is why he can never get a girl. Or fucking keep one. Not the whole uninterested thing, because seriously, he was very, very interested, right up until they locked lips, but the part where he's about as smooth as an avalanche. It's probably a fucking good thing he's hot. Celibacy really isn't the lifestyle choice for him.

He gathers up his stuff, phone and jacket, and makes a beeline for the exit. The cool night air blasts him in the face, clearing the alcohol from his head and thankfully taking some of the embarrassment with it. He's in a cab on the way home before he realises he's got messages waiting.

The first one is from the Skingraft guys with a time and place for their New Years shindig. The second one's from Adam, making sure that Tommy got the first one. The third is Adam again, about a half an hour after the other, with _8pm, Johnny's workshop_ , just in case Tommy didn't get it, or his cell phone ate it or something. The last one is also Adam's, and reads, _Heard you crawled out of your cave. Have fun! ;)_

A wink back as Tommy's walking up the steps to his place is all he's got in him. He'd been really hoping, in that dying of all-consuming desperation way, that it was the affection he'd been missing. Just being close to somebody. He's been kind of a huggy guy his whole life. Maybe it was a bit odd during his metalhead days, but nobody cared. Or it wasn't like anybody ever tried to shove him off, anyway.

But Mike's always been cool with the occasional pileup on the couch with him and Tessa, so it's not like he's suddenly touch-deprived, and it's not like Tommy's ever wanted to lick the guy's tonsils. A couple years ago, he wouldn't have minded licking Tessa's, but he's not a complete jackass.

What it really comes down to is that nobody's ever kissed him like Adam, and he's got a horrible, sinking suspicion nobody else ever will.

*

Over California rolls, tofu turkey and the endless chiming of Tommy's cell phone, Dia says, "Honey, you could have invited him."

Tommy quickly stuffs a roll into his mouth and shrugs. He's glad his mom doesn't force him to do the stereotypical family thing on Christmas Day, but fuck, he hopes Lisa shows up to save him soon.

Making one of those unimpressed mom noises, Dia gets up, hands him a napkin. When she sits back down, she's wearing her calm, reasonable face. Tommy swallows hard.

"I think he's sweet," she says, like it isn't Tommy's boss she's talking about. "It must be hard for him to find real friends now. Maybe you should try to be a little less professional."

Tommy nearly chokes on a lone murderous grain of rice. He picks up his beer, gulping down what's left in three good swallows. "Right," he says, clearing his throat and pounding his chest as he gets up for another. There are three left in the fridge. If this is a conversation she honestly wants to have, that's not nearly gonna be enough. "I like my job, mom. I mean I really like it."

A tiny wrinkle appears between her eyebrows. "I know," she says, obviously not seeing the problem here.

"And yeah, Adam is amazing-"

One of Dia's eyebrows wings up.

"And okay, I kinda love the guy-"

The other one shoots up to join it.

" _And_ I'd really like to, y'know, not fuck up this shit so bad I gotta go take a header off a cliff."

This time, the unimpressed mom face makes an appearance along with the noise. "That sounds an awful lot like an excuse to me."

Tommy leans back against the fridge, scowling at his beer. "Maybe you could be like, a little less supportive."

"Oh, honey," Dia says, completely without sympathy, and steals the last roll off Tommy's plate.

*

"Fucking Johnny Depp," is the first thing Tommy says to Adam when they meet up on New Year's Eve.

"God, I wish," Adam moans, pushing a plastic booze-filled cup into Tommy's hand and dragging him in for a hug. "In any sense implied there."

Flinging his free arm around Adam's waist, Tommy snuggles right in, happiness humming through his veins as Adam squeezes tighter. The scruff on Adam's face is rough on Tommy's, soft scratch lighting up nerves one by one like tiny firecrackers going off beneath his skin. He breathes in deep, his lungs full of Adam, his skin tingling with it, _Adam Adam Adam_ coursing along his nervous system to slam into his chest, kickstart-heart electric. He doesn't want to let go.

"Good to see you, too, Tommy Joe." A kiss presses warm to Tommy's hair. "C'mon and meet the new puppy."

Of all people, the puppy belongs to Roxy. He's a tiny ball of manic fluff wrapped up in a crossbones hoodie prone to licking fingers and noses and unattended cups, and Tommy takes one look at him before declaring, "Adam Junior." A round of applause goes up while Adam stares at the pup, and the pup stares back, wagging his puffball tail without a speck of concern over Adam's, "Needs more glam," assessment. Then there's more hellos, more drinks, more laughter, photographs and tales of world travel until Tommy, swaying slightly on his feet and blinking blearily up at the clock, realises it's two minutes to midnight.

Dumbly, Tommy says, "Adam," under his breath, and scans the blurry room. Someone's arm settles around his shoulders--Johnny's, he thinks, or Cassidy's--and they say something to him, steering him to the bank of glittering windows. There are a lot of people gathered there. None of them are Adam. He mumbles, "Happy New Year," and hefts his empty cup at whoever the hell is hanging off of him and ducks free, turning in an unsteady circle. He can't find Adam.

He can't find Adam, and the countdown's started. _Fifty-two_ echoes gong-like inside his skull. Grabbing onto a half-clothed mannequin, stickpins jabbing his palm, he turns back around, and around again. At thirty-nine there's a flash of dark hair; at twenty, sky-bright blue eyes. Midnight hangs a glinting, razor-sharp guillotine above his neck. He shouldn't have had so much to fucking drink. Maybe if he could swing a single fucking hour of sobriety at one of these things for once, he'd be able to find Adam.

 _Fifteen, fourteen_ , and Tommy stumbles into Roxy's arms. _Thirteen,_ she swings him around, laughing. A champagne flute takes the place of his red cup. Tommy plants his feet, dizzied. He needs to find Sutan-- _ten, nine, eight_ \--Sutan'll help. Sutan's got some whacked-out makeup artist tracker skills, he _always_ finds Adam in time.

 _Three, two_ \--too late. 2011 explodes in Tommy's face. He stares at the bright flashing lights, the riot of coloured streamers, buffeted on all sides by the joyous screams of another year gone and a new one come. He raises his glass on autopilot, downs the contents when everyone else does. The cool sparkle of champagne on his lips, on his tongue, is total shit compared to the midnight kiss he'd gotten last year, when his whole body tingled from the touch of Adam's mouth.

*

As Tommy climbs into the car Adam sent to take him to Sutan's premiere party, Tommy thinks, _It's okay. It's cool, I'm cool_. He worked the whole thing out. When he arrives the red carpet papfest has wound down, and he slips straight in for the show without being spotted. A few minutes later he settles into his seat with Taylor on one side and Terrence on the other. There are a couple murmured hellos from them, and then he reaches over Taylor to give Adam's hand a squeeze. Adam squeezes back, throwing him a smile. It's all good.

By the time they step back out, heading for the afterparty Adam doesn't want to miss, and every fucking camera in the entire motherfucking state goes off in his face, he's thinking, _Fuck, fuck, Adam, where the fuck_ , because this is not cool. Yeah, he saw paps on the way in, but not this fucking many. What the hell did they do, schedule a fucking convention? He can't see shit through all the flashes.

Through a smile, real concern in his voice, Taylor asks, "You good?"

Tommy attempts to loosen the death grip he's got on his freakin' Aquafina. He gives a tight nod, glancing to the side when somebody shrills out Adam's name. He really fucking hates that, and he _knows_ it drives Adam crazy, but the best he's got for the douchebag is an annoyed glare. And that's when he clues in that Adam is right there, has been for awhile, arm flung around Taylor's waist. Between one flash and the next, fingers slip inside Tommy's open jacket, catch in his tee and give it a tug. Oxygen floods back into Tommy's lungs.

The ride to Rage goes by in a blur. Sandwiched between Adam and Taylor, Tommy doesn't pay one bit of attention to the conversation flying by. His head's tucked into the crook of Adam's arm, and it feels good. Really good. Like if he closes his eyes, the hush of tires on pavement, the music pounding over their laughter, will bring him back to the tour, driving through the night to reach another venue, another sold-out crowd, another day living in Adam's pocket.

They hit the club, the bar, everything still a blur right up until the moment Adam stops having fun. Tommy doesn't love these things by any stretch--booze is good, company makes it better, and it's easier to enjoy the craziness when everybody else is. Tommy's not at all sure what the hell changed, but the good time freezes in its tracks, and suddenly he's ducking into the car by himself while the others are running interference and Adam is hanging back by the club exit, this look on his face like the world is about to end. The paps are on the car like fucking vultures. They're not paying any attention to him, and all he's really thinking about is how that'll give him the chance to jump out and pop a couple of them.

Tommy fidgets with his seatbelt. One of the shitheads has a zoom lens aimed right at Adam's face. Confrontation isn't his thing either. Maybe he'll make an exception.

Fuck, Tommy's not really gonna, because Adam'll kill him. That's about the only reason. A silver of air makes it in through the tight clench of his teeth when Adam finally gets off the fucking phone and makes for the car. For some stupid, fucked-up reason, Tommy jumps out the second Adam is in range, one hand on his arm to like, fucking guide him into the relative safety of the car or some whacked out shit like that. Adam is strung tight, hiding his face, and for a second--just a second, honest--Tommy seriously considers breaking a few noses.

He gets back in the fucking car instead.

"Just go," Adam says to the driver.

More camera flashes go off. The driver lays on the horn. They creep forward maybe an inch.

A tortured sound ekes out of Adam's throat. He leans in close, says, "Baby, look out."

Tommy flicks a glance at the paps. One of them gives him a thumbs-up. God fucking damn it. He turns his face away, breath held until they pull away from the kerb and the flashes fall back.

Not even fucking thinking about it, Tommy scoots across the seat and plasters himself to Adam's side. Tension sings through Adam's body like an out of tune guitar. He holds on tighter.

Adam's hand skims down Tommy's thigh. "I'm okay," he says, and pulls away.

Cold air rushes in against Tommy's side. He really should've fucking punched somebody in the face.

*

Even in Burbank, there's a ton of shit to do at three in the morning besides break out the vacuum cleaner. The thing is, Tommy can't sit still long enough to do any of his usual three-in-the-morning pastimes. It's actually freaking him out. He'd mastered the art of collecting dust at the tender age of seven. That it's failing him now, and failing him so hard to the point where he's zipping around the living room with a beer in one hand, the vacuum in the other and Manson screaming in both ears, he's convinced a meteor is going to fall on his head any second.

Which would suck. Shit always gets splattered all over the carpet the second after you finish cleaning it.

It also takes Tommy at least thirty seconds to figure out what isn't sucking any more is the vacuum. He frowns at it, jabbing the button.

"Hey, shortbus!" Mike hollers. "It's fucking three am!"

Wincing, Tommy pushes down his headphones. "You're home."

Mike's eyes bug out of their sockets. "We've been home all night! You watched a movie with us!"

Shrinking back, Tommy buys some time by chugging beer. He'd totally forgotten. Or maybe he thought that had happened on Tuesday, and today was Thursday. No, Friday. "Is it Saturday?"

"You shithead," Mike snaps, snatching the beer out of Tommy's grip. Tommy peeps alarmingly, sure the last of his awesome import brew is going to burble its last down the sink. Mike downs it instead. Which is only a step up from chucking it down the pipes, if Tommy's gonna be honest about the state of Mike's taste buds. "Go the fuck to bed. Or don't, see if I fucking care, you insomniac fuckwad. Just quit being a moon-eyed douchebag, Christ."

"I'm not fucking _moon-eyed_ ," Tommy protests. The rest of it, well. Mike's got a point.

"You are!" Mike jabs a finger in his face. "And I don't give a shit what Tessa said, there are no pity fucks in this household. She didn't mean it, anyway."

Tommy rolls his eyes. Obviously. First of all, Tessa's not that kind of girl, and second of all, Tommy's not that kind of guy, and fucking third of all, Mike damn well knows parts one and two. At least he'd fucking better. In light of all of this, Tommy mutters, "Dick."

"Me!" For a second, it looks like the vein in Mike's forehead is going to burst, then, weirdly, he calms down. Entirely. Fucking zen. "Here's the deal. You don't want to talk about your whatever, _I_ don't want to talk about your whatever, but dude, you're listening to Manson and cleaning the fucking house, okay? That's all I'm gonna say. And also, shut the fuck up with the racket."

Tommy scowls. But he shuts the fuck up, and goes to sit on a stool at the breakfast nook. He folds his arms, pointedly silent.

"Awesome," Mike says, and goes to get a fresh brew out of the fridge. He even pops the top before setting it on the counter in front of Tommy. "One more thing."

"What," Tommy mumbles around a mouthful of beer.

"Just fucking tell him."

"Shut the fuck up," Tommy grouses, and takes a bigger swig.

*

 _You're coming over._

Tommy stares at his phone. He's been staring at it, parked in the alley beside his favourite mexican place, for the last five minutes. The three tacos sitting on the passenger seat of the cheap clunker he picked up for kicking around in are cold. His stomach grumbles irritably. He ignores it.

He knew Adam was moving into the new place soon. He'd expected some kind of housewarming party. A get together, an excuse to break in the new wet bar, something. Not, _You're coming over_ , just like that. No _can you_ or _would you_ or _if you're not busy_. Nope, no fucking interrogative sentences here. Question marks, it turns out, are for pussies.

But Tommy can work with this new standard of communication. _Hotel hobo, where the fuck u live._

Ten seconds later, he's got an address. He decides to stare at it for a minute or two before cranking the key. If traffic's not shit, he can maybe get there in an hour. Maybe two.

It's LA. Traffic is always shit. Two and a half hours later, as evening creeps close, Tommy pulls up to a gated driveway. He sits there, engine idling, while he stares at the intercom for a few minutes. Staring stupidly at shit's been his thing today. Wouldn't want to ruin his streak.

With a rude, angry buzz, like the intercom isn't at all interested in his creepy ogler routine, the gate peels open. He inches up the drive.

Adam's new place suits him, at least from the outside. The specifics fly right over Tommy's head, but on his way up to the front door, he gets impressions like inviting, tidy, bright. When his foot touches the stoop, the door swings open, Adam framed in the sun streaming down through a skylight. Safe behind overpriced sunglasses, Tommy's still dazed.

"So, like, here I am," Tommy says, once he figures out how to work his vocal chords again.

Instead of a hug hello, Tommy gets, "I ordered pizza. An hour ago."

"Sorry?" Tommy tries, stepping up to push past Adam into the house. Inside's a lot like out; not much registers in Tommy brain except it's Adam's, and that maybe if his guts weren't suddenly a quivering ball of nerves, it'd be as comfortable as entering Adam's orbit usually is. He shoves his sunglasses up into his hair.

Whatever the fuck's going on, Adam takes one look at Tommy's face and the iceberg on his shoulder melts. "It doesn't seem like it's mine yet," he says, flicking a glance at the hallway, the living room beyond it with the killer sound system and giant horseshoe couch. "I thought some company would help me settle."

There are a whole bunch of questions sitting on the tip of Tommy's tongue. For once, he takes the time to shuffle through them, bypassing _why'd you call me?_ and _what the hell is really going on here?_ to land on, "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

Tension seeps out of Adam's shoulders like somebody's cut his strings. "Do you want me to warm up the pizza?"

Tommy's lived half his life on cold pizza and bourbon. Most of the time, he doesn't give a flying fuck about what he puts in his mouth beyond the expiration date. But Adam's never really embraced the traditions of single-male living as Tommy knows them. "You do the pizza, I'll get plates and like, shit. Napkins."

Weirdly, Tommy knows his way around Adam's brand-spanking-new kitchen the same as if he built the damn thing himself. Even more weird is how they dance around one another, him fetching plates and napkins, Adam sticking the pizza in a fancy space-age oven that looks like it requires a passcode and a retina scan to open before grabbing some power-mix water thing and a beer from the fridge, without saying a single word. Tommy makes it back to the living room first, dumping the plates onto the coffee table first, then heading for the Blu-ray.

 _Lonesome Dove_ is already sitting in the player. He eyeballs it suspiciously. When Adam wanders in a minute later with the pizza, Tommy transfers the squinty-eye to him, pointing at the disc like it's a smoking gun.

Adam shrugs. "You like it."

"I like heist movies, too." They both like heist movies. And romances, but Tommy's got to draw the line somewhere. Adam's line is generally drawn right across John Wayne's face. It's not that Adam doesn't _like_ westerns, but that if Tommy's not going to sit through _Titanic_ one more time, then Adam's not going to sit through _True Grit_ either. It's fair. Sorta.

Adam's not paying attention, though, all pretend-busy scooping up a slice of vegetarian for himself and a few meat lover's for Tommy. Sighing, Tommy sticks the disc back in the player, plunking his ass down on the couch as the opening credits roll.

It takes him all of thirty seconds to feel like a total douche. There's a chasm between them about the size of the Grand Canyon, and Adam's focused on his pizza so intently it might as well be his last meal. This is just not how they do things. Tommy tries to catch Adam's gaze once or twice, hoping to use it as an opening, but Adam is deeply, deeply committed to bite-chew-swallow. An earthquake couldn't throw off his rhythm.

"Motherfucker," Tommy mutters, clunking his plate back down on the table.

Shock turns Adam's eyes the size of saucers. "What-"

"This is stupid." Scooting closer, Tommy swings his feet up onto the couch and burrows his way under Adam's arm. It's awkward and uncomfortable until Adam gives in, sinking down to let Tommy's head rest on his chest. From there it's like tumblers in a lock clicking into place all the way to Tommy nabbing the pizza off his plate to put it on Adam's, sharing because it's a hell of a lot easier than trying to balance two plates on Adam's mostly-occupied lap. "S'better."

Adam's cheek brushes the top of Tommy's head. "Is it?"

Tommy frowns at his pizza. Now he can't see Adam's face. But maybe that's what makes it easier to say, "Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know," Adam says, his tone like a shrug meant to brush it off as nothing.

Like hell Tommy's buying that shit. He wriggles around so he can at least see a sliver of Adam's expression. "Would you just tell me already?"

This time, Adam's sigh is like a bellows. "Maybe you should just tell me," he says, and it doesn't sound annoyed, or pissed like it should. Just tired. Really, really tired.

There are a lot of things Tommy doesn't mind claiming responsibility for, up to and including ruining Adam's perfect pitch right in the middle of a show with one slow, sidelong glance, but that tone? Hell no. He doesn't want to be anywhere near the reason for that. He figures he's got two choices here. Tommy Joe Ratliff, though, can be a scared little shit, so he goes with the one that doesn't feel so much like carving his heart out of his chest.

"It just felt weird not cuddling," Tommy fesses up, giving himself points for not wussing out with saying something like 'being close'. But maybe he loses a few for cutting 'with you' off the end. "Got used to it on tour."

One beat of loaded silence, two, then, "Is that all you got used to?"

And there it is. A fucking engraved invitation. Tommy could just lay it all out. Instead, he picks at the seam of Adam's jeans, stares at his chipped nail polish and wonders when he became a thirteen year old girl.

But then Adam goes and says, "So it's just me," his voice weighing a fucking ton, like he'll break under the weight of it, and fuck, _fuck_. It's all fucked to hell now. No matter what Tommy does next, or says, or doesn't even fucking say or do, he's going to ruin everything. His whole chest, lungs and stomach and heart, constricts, feels like somebody jammed the entire works into a trash compactor and hit start.

Somebody a hell of a lot smarter--braver--than him would get up, put some distance between them. The last thing he fucking wants is _distance_. He's had enough fucking distance from Adam these past few weeks to do him a fucking lifetime.

And yeah, sometimes he's a little slow on the uptake. Sometimes, _sometimes_ , he's so slow he's fucking glacial. Sure, he heard what Adam just said. But he hadn't heard what the hell Adam _meant_. As soon as that seeps into his head, he closes his eyes tight. "Shit."

Adam immediately moves away, pressing into the fraction of a inch of space left between him and the couch. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. You didn't even realise, that was a really cheap shot, I'm sorry."

"You are such a dick," Tommy snaps, snatching the pizza plate out of Adam's grip and shoving it onto the table. "I was ready to ignore fucking _everything_ , and you had to go and--shit. Fucking _honesty_." Pissed the hell off, he clambers into Adam's lap. "This is a fucking date, isn't it. Who told you, huh? Sutan? Danielle?" His eyes narrow. "It was Mike, wasn't it. Fucking Mike. Fucking Mike and his fucking inability to believe I'm not gonna fucking dick his girlfriend."

"Tessa?" Adam says, confused. "Why would he think-"

Tommy grabs up two rough handfuls of Adam's shirt and yanks him in close. "Forget that shit. Do you wanna kiss me or not?"

"I'm gonna say yes," Adam says, very, very carefully folding his hands over Tommy's, "but I'm also gonna say what the fuck, Tommy Joe, because what the fuck?"

"Been fucking dying to kiss you for _weeks_ ," Tommy says, making it a point of pride to firmly ignore how much like a whine that sounds. "Fucking weeks. It's like, cold fucking turkey, man. I can't do this cold turkey shit. Would you shut me up with your tongue in my mouth already."

Adam makes a noise, this really fucking sweet promise of a noise, and then they're kissing. Or more like Adam's kissing him, because Tommy's whole system has gone shock-still. His heart's even probably stopped beating in favour of sitting up and taking notice of exactly the way Adam's hands frame his face, how Adam pushes up and in and takes over Tommy's mouth like he's digging for fucking gold. It goes on, and on, a tickle of tongue at the corner of Tommy's lips, dragging along the inside of them, driving in and stroking soft against Tommy's tongue until his insides are all twisted up in seven and a half different kinds of knots. Adam tastes like fucking broccoli and it's the best fucking thing in the whole god damn world.

Until Adam stops.

"What the fucking fuck," Tommy mumbles, too busy nibbling at Adam's bottom lip to pose like, an actual fucking question.

Adam looks like he's going to say something important. Honestly, Tommy gives leaving off eating Adam's mouth a try, he really does. But he's really fucking missed this. He's never even had it exactly like this, not with Adam pressed so close for so long, all strong, firm lines and sharp angles, the heat of his dick right fucking there between Tommy's legs.

"Holy shit." Adam's _dick_. Tommy's hands fly to Adam's belt, start tugging. He hasn't actually given much thought to what Adam's packing aside from the usual--cut, uncut, how big. Okay, so maybe wondering about Adam's fucking foreskin isn't technically the _usual_ , but it's not like he's the only person on the fucking planet sparing it a moment or two.

Fingers bump clumsily into Tommy's. Tommy flashes to Adam saying some completely unnecessary shit like _you don't have to_ or fuck, _slow down_ , what the hell would be the point of saying _that_. But Adam's going for the button, the zip, then lifting his hips up to help when Tommy starts yanking his jeans down. The second Tommy gets Adam's cock out, the world stops spinning. That is another guy's fucking dick in Tommy's hand.

And Tommy really, really likes it.

Not even in an abstract I-like-the-guy-it's-attached-to way. Okay, yes, that way too, but mostly in a visceral way, like a swift punch to the nuts, so turned on he might go blind way. Adam's cock is hot. Adam's cock with his fingers, Tommy's actual fucking fingers, wrapped around it is pornographic levels of hot. He really fucking hopes he doesn't go blind in the next ten seconds.

"Fuck," Tommy says. He gives Adam an experimental tug. "I really like your dick."

Adam's fingers dig into Tommy's thighs. He breathes out, "Thanks," and, "Oh my god," and then that last one again when Tommy spits in his hand, brings it back for another pull. It's even better the second time around, so sweet with Adam's voice gone rough in his throat that Tommy has to get both hands on him, touch every single inch of him like trying to read Braille.

Tommy's going to be honest here. He figured he'd be more than okay with touching Adam's junk. In fact, he sorta counted on enjoying it. Just, maybe not to the point where he's all of three seconds away from creaming his shorts.

And then Adam has to go and fucking kiss him again. Tommy's insides seize up, whole body jerking in Adam's lap, and it is seriously a god damn miracle that he doesn't blow it right then. He squeezes Adam's cock maybe a little too hard, making Adam grunt through the kiss. This is going to be the shittiest handjob Adam's gotten in the history of ever.

But between sucking on Tommy's tongue and biting on Tommy's bottom lip, Adam says, "Don't stop, please don't stop," and what the hell is Tommy gonna do then except listen? He gives it his best fucking shot, trying out pressing his thumb to Adam's slit the way he likes, feeling clumsy and awesome as he figures out Adam goes a little crazy for more pressure around the base, close to his balls, as he gets Adam fucking up into his hands, kisses going awkward and lopsided and amazing.

He doesn't even fucking know what to do with himself when Adam loses it. Like it just totally snuck up on him or something, like he wasn't expecting jizz smeared all over his hands, like that wasn't the fucking _goal_ here. He keeps jacking Adam's dick 'cause Adam seems to like it. Adam's holding so hard onto Tommy's ass that he's probably going have bruises tomorrow.

When Adam's cock starts going soft, Tommy lets go. He stares down at it for a heartbeat, at his hands covered in come and everything glistening weirdly in the muted light of the television, and then he's pawing crazily at his own jeans, not giving a flying fuck about the mess he's making, only about getting his aching cock in his hands right the hell _now_.

He gets as far as opening up his jeans before the house tips sideways. His back hits the floor with a jarring thud. It takes him a minute to figure out what the fuck, and by then his jeans are down around his ankles and his shirt is rucked up under his armpits and Adam's gorgeous motherfucking mouth is on his dick. He bucks up, not even fucking thinking, okay, his body on autopilot, pleasure like a brushfire taking him over as his cock bumps the back of Adam's throat.

Adam grabs his wrists, pins them to the floor. Sucks hard once and stops entirely, one eyebrow raised as he meets Tommy's gaze.

"Son of a bitch," Tommy groans, dizzied. "Sorry. Fuck. Some fucking warning next time."

The only thing the look in Adam's eyes promises is a maybe. After that, all Tommy registers is tight, wet heat, the flick of Adam's tongue and the slick, perfect slide of his cock between Adam's lips. Pressure builds up too fast in Tommy's belly and he grits his teeth, a panicked noise slipping free as he tries to hold off being the fucking five-second wonder of the night and totally fails. He comes so hard he's pretty sure there are whole fucking universes created in the explosions going off behind his eyelids.

The first thing he hears after is Adam's blowjob-thick, "Baby?"

"Fuck." Maybe if Tommy never opens his eyes again, he won't die of mortification. There's got to be some rule somewhere against trying to fuck your best guy friend's face and then shooting your load straight down his throat without asking. He'd cover his face with his hands but they're still covered with Adam's jizz and he's not sure he wants to go with the whole semi-facial thing right now.

"Grunt if I didn't break you," Adam says from right above him, sounding honestly concerned that this might be the case.

Tommy punches him in the arm. "I'm not broken, you dick. I'm fucking embarrassed. Jesus."

Adam's _ow!_ face fades into confusion. "Over really amazing sex?"

"I," Tommy starts, and stops short. "Yeah? That wasn't like, the straight guy doesn't know what the fuck he's doing?"

Adam cycles through expressions like a flipbook--here's confusion, doubt, awe, affection. Tommy likes that last one. Combined with the other three, it's seriously adorable. Tommy's chest constricts. Yeah, that's the one. He absolutely fucking adores Adam.

"You are so crazy," Adam says, and it sounds a hell of a lot like _I love you_ to Tommy. "What the fuck am I gonna do with you?"

At the risk of being accused of rom-com levels of cheesy, Tommy says, "Buy me a drink?"

When Adam doesn't laugh right away, this strange look on his face that Tommy can't quite figure out, worry starts gnawing on Tommy's insides. He opens his mouth, shuts it, tries desperately to come up with something else to say to smooth over the sudden monumental awkward of lying here staring up at Adam with his dick out and jizz on his hands and things Adam so didn't say echoing in his skull.

Adam twists around, grabbing a half-empty bottle of warm beer off the table and shoving it into Tommy's hand. His smile as he does is so fucking amazing it kind of hurts to stare directly at it, like it's going to burn its shape into Tommy's retinas like an eclipse.

"I'm crazy," Tommy mutters, part admission, part accusation.

"Yeah," Adam says, and does the best thing to happen to Tommy since ten seconds ago.

Adam kisses him.


End file.
